


I Woke Up Like This

by MachaSWicket



Series: Flawless [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Flawless, One-Shot, The Morning After The Night Before
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 01:29:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2291903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  The morning after the night before. Felicity isn’t feeling flawless.  <i>Adult content (sexytimes)</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Woke Up Like This

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS: to katelinnea and youguysimserious for taking a look at this. youguysimserious suggested the title, which is awesome and from the Beyonce song, _***Flawless_. All flaws in the story are mine. ;)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: these characters belong to DC and the show producers, not me.

Her first conscious thought is the usual grumbliness about stupid mornings with their obnoxious sunlight and insistent, shrieking alarms. Because Felicity is good at a whole lot of things, but morning is definitely _not_ one of them. She shifts, rolling half onto her stomach to flail an arm in the general direction of her phone.

Which is… not where it’s supposed to be.

Her second thought is more of a realization -- the warm weight on her bare thigh is his hand. 

Oliver’s hand. 

Felicity’s eyes blink open, then narrow against all of that stupid sunshine streaming in through her window. Which -- annoying, but more importantly, _Oliver is in her bed_. 

She can feel the warmth in her cheeks as she remembers pulling his lips down to hers, remembers the instant reaction from him. No wonder she forgot to close her blinds, she thinks, suddenly and vividly remembering the way she’d laid her palms on that ridiculous chest of his to push him, smirking, into her bed. And he’d yanked her down after him, onto him. She’d been -- _they’d_ been -- too caught up in each other to think about practical, unsexy things like sunrise and window shades.

After they tumbled onto the mattress, her memory… breaks down into fragments. Calloused fingertips grazing her jawbone. The soft fabric of his shirt over impossibly hard muscle. Scratchy scruff abrading the sensitive skin around her mouth.

Is beard burn a thing, she wonders. Is she going to look in the mirror and see a terrible ring of angry red around her mouth? She gets Oliver Queen into her bed -- into her body, she amends with a shiver, her eyes drifting shut as she remembers the feel of him all over her, inside her, and, God, now she’s grinning -- and maybe the karmic balance is that she has to face him in the morning with, like, rugburn face. 

Her stomach drops -- it’s so much more difficult to hide things in daylight. And her hair is probably a total mess, what with their rather enthusiastic encounter. Encounters. Whatever. He’d tugged her hair free of its ponytail early on, and she’d spent quite a lot of time on her back, you know… _writhing_ while he did impossible, incredible things with his mouth and his fingers. Felicity whimpers at the vivid memory and presses her hand to her face, feeling the burn of her blush against her palm.

But her phone is still singing its cheerful electronic song, and it’s not within easy snoozing reach so she can’t whack it into silence. From the rough, raspy chuckle against her neck, she knows Oliver’s awake. His shifts behind her, rolling his ridiculous, wall-like chest flush against her back, and the warm hand on her thigh eases north. Felicity shivers with sudden-onset goosebumps. 

“Morning,” he murmurs. “Do we need to get up for anything today?” He shifts until she can feel the scrape of his stubble against her neck. He presses a soft, wet kiss behind her ear, and it’s just not fair what he can do to her with a minimum of effort.

Not. Fair.

Not that she’s actually _complaining_ , because, holy shit, the man has a gift. Several. And she was more than happy to appreciate them. She would very much like to appreciate them again in the very near future. As soon as _now_ , in fact, if he doesn’t stop it with the kissing and the fingers creeping up her thigh. Her legs move a little, restlessly.

“No,” she answers belatedly, and wants to punch something when her voice comes out all high and uneven and breathy. He sounds all sleep-sexy, and she sounds like a demented pixie.

A demented pixie with sex-hair and rugburn face. Felicity groans and turns her face into the pillow, trying to check her breath while she’s at it. Maybe if she just stays like that, he’ll fall back asleep and she can sneak into the bathroom for a hairbrush and a toothbrush.

“Good.” His warm breath tickles across her skin, and she’s pretty sure he’s not going to let her hide in this pillow much longer. “I don’t want to get out of your bed.” Her fingers clutch at the sheets and she presses her thighs together a little -- because, _seriously_ , how can he say things like that and expect her to function? Oliver nips at her earlobe and his breath is hot against her ear. “Want me to get your phone for you?”

“Yes, please,” she agrees quickly. Because she’s not a morning person, and she uses several rounds of alarms of increasing annoyance, and they _will_ keep going until they drive her crazy or get her out of bed. She’s tried to ignore them before, but only succeeded in yelling her surrender to the phone while she stomps over to silence it, and she _really_ doesn’t need to add insane, shrieking harpy to Oliver’s impressions of her the morning after. 

Insane, shrieking, _naked_ harpy, she amends, because she’s not wearing a stitch. Which is not so great for the getting-her-phone-to-shut-up mission since she’d have to untangle herself from Oliver, but is perfectly delightful here with his naked body pressed against her. All she can feel is his warm skin, from her shoulders to her knees, and he’s not even _doing_ anything and she’s buzzing with lust.

Then he shifts away from her, his palm skimming along her hipbone, flattening against her stomach and urging her onto her back. Felicity yelps a little, her hand automatically lifting to smooth her hair, to do _something_ before he sees her in the cold light of day. 

Oliver immediately eases the pressure on her stomach. “What’s wrong?”

Felicity just barely resists the urge to cover her face. She’s not sure why she’s suddenly so embarrassed, so insecure. Particularly considering how crystal clear he made his intentions -- his _attraction_ \-- last night. Also considering how uninhibited she’d been then. Of course, it’d been dark then. Or dark-ish, at least. Just a bedside lamp and some moonlight through the window when he’d peeled her clothes off with hands that she could’ve sworn were shaking just a little bit.

She tells herself to get a grip. She takes a breath and drops onto her back, her shoulder bumping up against the (crazy muscled) bicep of the arm propping his head up. He’s lying on his side and gazing down at her.

 _Gazing_.

Like the _ridiculously_ handsome devil he is. God. He wakes up with those blue eyes and that jaw and that _intensity_ that he’s got trained on her, and how is a normal human supposed to even cope? “You’ve got to be kidding me with all of that,” she grumbles, then she does bring a hand to her face, because -- seriously, can _one_ embarrassing thought stay in her head _ever_? She spreads her fingers enough to peer up at him. He’s really just so beautiful; it makes her actually ache to look at him sometimes.

He grins, which makes it about forty-seven times worse, and says, “Felicity?” 

Well, he’s clearly not _immediately_ repulsed, even though her upper lip feels suspiciously chafe-y. So she pulls her hand away from her face and brings it to his, scratching her nails lightly against his stubble. “Hi,” she says, still feeling a little shy, or maybe just a little uncertain. She knows him so well in every other facet of their lives that she’s a little frustrated with herself for feeling awkward. Hell, even the sex, the _really amazing_ sex didn’t throw her off the way this quiet, sunlit intimacy has.

Probably because she’d spent an embarrassing amount of time the last few years _imagining_ how amazing sex with Oliver would be. She imagined that a _lot_ , and the fantasy didn’t come close to the hot, sweaty, enthusiastic, multiple-orgasm-y, and just downright _fun_ reality. 

But she’d never, ever allowed herself to imagine waking up with him; never let herself expect to see this kind of open affection in those familiar blue eyes.

Oliver studies her for a minute, and she knows how perceptive he can be when he wants to, when he focuses that intensity on her. She knows he’s probably figured out why she’s being all weird and awkward. Well, _more_ weird and awkward than normal, anyway. His smile softens and he leans closer, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips.

As he pulls back, she relaxes, finally, and says, “Thank God!”

He’s confused, giving her that half-amused, half-perplexed look that she’s seen in every possible context the last few years, _except_ her bed. “What?” he asks, and just the way he arches his eyebrow has her shifting a little against him, drives her buzz of arousal up a notch. God, she loves when he looks at her like that -- all challenge and amusement and something she still won’t let herself name.

And she forgets about the bedhead and the stupid beard burn on her face and just beams up at him. “You’re _human_!”

He laughs, but clearly has no idea what she’s talking about. “Since you’ve saved my life once or twice, I thought we’d already established that?”

“No, I mean--” She breaks off, twining her arms around his neck and tugging him until he rolls half on top of her, elbows on either side of her rib cage, and one thigh pressing between hers. “You know you’re all, _you know_ ,” she explains inarticulately, because, wow, vocabulary and clarity are a distant second at the moment to savoring the solid weight of him pressed against her, “and it can make a person feel a little…” She trails off, shrugging, which doesn’t work so well when you’re being cradled by a brick wall. Oliver doesn’t seem to mind, though, because he groans a little bit and drops his face closer to kiss her again.

“And how do you feel?” he murmurs against her mouth, still trying to untangle her sentences.

“You’re human,” she repeats cheerfully. “You have flaws.”

Oliver pulls back, smiling even as he tilts his head in that way of his. “I’m painfully aware of that,” he answers. “I have quite a few of them, actually. Is there a particular flaw that’s bothering you at the moment?”

“No, I _love_ that you have morning breath,” she tells him.

He stills above her, eyes wide. “Uh…”

Felicity urges him closer, her fingers pressing hard into the plane of his back, concerned that she may have insulted him and secretly a little delighted to have left him speechless. That’s one of her favorite things in the entire world. “No, I just mean -- it’s a little daunting,” she explains, letting her fingers trail down the muscles of his back, skimming across the scars and onto the curve of his delicious ass, “all of _this_.” She tries _really_ hard not to squeeze, but she’s only human, too.

Oliver’s still staring down at her in confusion, and her stupid phone is still sounding its alarm, and she doesn’t care anymore, because maybe he finds her insane sex-hair as charming as she finds his not-that-terrible-but-definitely-not-great morning breath. “Daunting?” he finally manages, and she laughs because he’s clearly trying not to breathe on her.

“Oh, come on, Oliver -- you roll out of bed all, you know, _you_ , and I’m just some normal girl who needs a little makeup and a hairbrush and, like, ‘ _foundation garments_ ’ sometimes.” She lifts her hands from his body to make sarcastic air quotes, even though he can’t see them because they’re behind his back, and then touches him again, more confidently this time. She trails her fingertips in little patterns along his ribs the way she discovered he likes, whimpering a little when she can feel his reaction against her hip.

His eyes are dark and intense again, his hands dipping under her shoulders to press her closer. “I don’t know what a foundation garment is, but you’re beautiful, Felicity. Especially here, like this -- you’re beautiful.”

She flushes and grins, and she’s still sure she has angry pink skin around her mouth from his beard, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s still looking at her like… like _that_ , and she know he absolutely means it. The demented, besotted fool.

But that could just as easily be describing her, because she leans up and kisses him and his not-so-great morning breath, and she doesn’t _care_ , because she nudges his hip and groans into his mouth and he reads her mind and lifts up a little. She shifts beneath him until she’s cradling him with her hips and he’s _God, right there_ , and when she eases her legs further apart her thigh muscles are a little sore and _she’s_ more than a little sore, but it’s the _best kind_ of sore and--

Oliver laughs against her neck. “If you’re too sore--”

“Not even,” she interrupts, emphatically. She wriggles beneath him and they both moan. “Kiss me, you fool.”

He shifts closer, his face hovering just inches above hers, while she lets her hands wander the broad expanse of his back and tickle along his sides. He shivers a little against her, and it feels fantastic. “What about my awful morning breath?” he asks, grinning down at her.

She smiles back. “Evens the playing field.”

“No way,” he says, shifting his weight to one arm so he can run his free hand along her neck, down across her collarbone. “Nothing in the world could bring you down to my level, Felicity.”

She blinks, her eyes stinging suddenly, because, _seriously_ , he’s too much. Just -- _too much_. “Oliver,” she says. Just his name. She has no actual follow up.

“It’s true,” he says, his hand sliding down her body. 

She arches beneath him, nearly panting already. He can wind her up so fast with all of the intense gazing and the sweet words and the touching. God, the touching. He is _good_ with his hands. So very, very good and attentive and intuitive and, wow, if he doesn’t touch her where she needs him in the next three seconds-- “Uhhhh,” she says, only it’s not a word and she doesn’t care and he’s laughing into her mouth and kissing her and coaxing her higher even though she can’t really move her hips the way she wants to. And then he pulls back and she grumbles her frustration and opens her eyes. “Why are you stopping?”

He looks downright smug as he asks, “What about the alarm?”

Felicity blinks, needing a minute to-- “Oh. Right.” How she’d managed to _not hear_ the angry tones of her second alarm, she doesn’t understand.

He’s definitely smirking down at her, the ass. “Right,” he teases, pressing light kisses against her collarbone, his hand only cupping her now. Not moving, not touching her the way she needs him to.

Pinned beneath his stupidly muscular mass and her mattress, Felicity doesn’t have much room to maneuver, but she gets a hand between them, and Oliver groans when she palms him. Her expression is probably a little smug, too, as she works him, but who could blame her? His jaw is clenched, the hand beside her shoulder balled into a fist, his other hand resting slack against her thigh. “The alarm’s just going to keep getting louder,” she sing-songs. Because now who’s distracted?

Oliver pulls her hand from him, then slides his palm up her thigh, urging her legs up around his hips. “I don’t really care right now,” he mutters, his voice a little strained and a lot needy, and Felicity is going to have to hear that from him basically every day until the end of time, because _she’s_ doing this to him and it’s honestly the hottest thing in the entire world. Her skin feels like it's on fire and she can’t seem to catch her breath. He stares down at her, shifts his hips and then he’s _so close_ to where she needs him. “Do you?”

“God, no,” she says, and then moans as he slips inside.

END


End file.
